Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3) Page 2

Azár’s mouth dropped open. She had not been present at the massacre, but she had heard of the atrocities committed by Aerysius’s Last Sentinel, his final act of desperation. Thousands of brave warriors had not returned from that campaign, their bodies reduced to charred ash scattered on the wind. Azár shivered as she regarded the disquieting man before her, coming to the slow conclusion that Zavier Renquist had to be telling the truth about him. It was the only explanation for the depths of torment in those harrowing eyes.

  “This is impossible!” Azár managed at last. “The man you speak of is dead!”

  “As am I,” the prime warden reminded her with a shrug and a smile. Spreading his hands, he went on to explain, “Darien Lauchlin committed his soul to the service of Xerys. He is now one with us in purpose. He has assumed all rights, responsibilities, and covenants of the Servant he replaces. So Darien is, in every respect, the overlord your people have been so long awaiting. Your request is his singular purpose to fulfill.”

  Azár turned her head and spat upon the ground. Whirling away, she exclaimed in anger, “I will not suffer the company of this man! He is not even a man—he is a demon, a monster!”

  “Perhaps.” The ancient prime warden raised his eyebrows. He did not appear affronted in the least by Azár’s accusation. “But I would strongly advise you to reconsider, and think very carefully before declining Darien’s assistance. Because, considering the nature of your demands, it sounds like a monster is exactly what you need.”

  Azár gazed at him with dread in her eyes, knowing deep down in her gut that Renquist’s assessment was probably accurate. She sighed, giving in, heart heavy with dismay.

  “Go with her,” Zavier Renquist commanded his newest Servant in a voice suffused with arrogance and ice. “You heard her demands. Go forth and fulfill them.”

  The dark-haired demon nodded slightly. “I will do my best, Prime Warden.” His voice sounded terse, strained. He strode forward.

  “Stop.”

  Renquist’s sharp command halted him in his tracks. As Azár looked on in fascination, Darien Lauchlin turned back around with weary patience in his eyes.

  Zavier Renquist promised him, “Your best isn’t going to be good enough. Instead of your best, I demand your worst. You must let go of your past and embrace your destiny. Unchain your inner demons. Conquer your own ghosts just as you once conquered my armies. Transcend the constraints you have used to shackle your conscience and experience firsthand what true freedom feels like.”

  Darien Lauchlin nodded, dark strands of hair swaying forward into his face. “It shall be as you ask, Prime Warden.”

  “It had better be. For your sake. And for hers.”

  Azár stared long and hard at the two men, her brow furrowed in consternation. Renquist’s threat had not been directed toward herself. She let her gaze linger on the man trudging toward her, a demon-hound jogging behind in his wake. Frowning, she wondered which woman’s life Zavier Renquist had just threatened. And why that woman’s life mattered so much to this tormented monster of a man.

  Chapter Two

  Message from the Past

  Rothscard, The Rhen

  KYEL ARCHER gazed up at the corrugated towers of Emmery Palace with a growing feeling of trepidation gnawing at his already soured stomach. He’d never liked Rothscard, and today’s visit was certainly no exception. Kyel’s every experience of the city had been riddled with misfortune in some significant way. The first time he’d passed through Rothscard, Kyel had found himself falsely accused of murder, chained, and swept away to the Front as a conscript to fight in the war. His second visit to the city had ended with him in chains of a very different nature, though the experience had been no less demeaning. Kyel couldn’t help but wonder if this visit would prove just as treacherous. This time, the matching pair of chains he wore on his wrists were of his own creation, forged by his own convictions. But that did little to ease the burden of their weight, or to render their harsh constraints less difficult to bear.

  Kyel gazed up at the ramparts of the palace with a whimsical expression, one thumb stroking the new growth of beard he wore on his face. As the coach drew up before an elegant fountain in the courtyard, Kyel cast a quick glance at Naia, seated across from him on a leather bench. The smile of reassurance she gifted him helped a little. It gave Kyel enough strength to conjure up a fleeting smile of his own.

  Naia appeared exceptionally in her element, he realized, completely at ease. The former priestess seemed more radiant than usual, her dark auburn hair gathered in a bun. Her face, once kept concealed by the white veil of Death, was almost shocking in its beauty. In the past two years, Kyel had grown more accustomed to the sight of Naia’s naked face, though he had never been able to take it entirely for granted. The absence of the veil remained conspicuous.

  Their coach drew to a halt with a sudden jolt. Kyel swallowed against a hard lump in his throat, surveying the tall towers of the palace through the window.

  He could hear Meiran’s voice beside him, muttering in her usual, no-nonsense alto, “Breathe, Kyel. You look like you’re going to be ill.”

  “I’m still not sure that I won’t be.”

  There was a sharp clank as someone outside threw open the door of the coach. Kyel stared for a moment at the door’s leather skin, then let his gaze drop to the boots of the footman awaiting them.

  Kyel took his time about climbing down out of the coach; it had been hours since he’d last had a chance to stretch his legs. Fortunately, the footman had positioned a small stool just under the carriage, making the drop down to the ground far less of an undertaking. Kyel took a few unsteady steps, gazing around as his hands went to straighten the thick black cloak that hung from his shoulders.

  Naia alighted gently at his side, followed immediately by Meiran, who strode forward between the two of them. The white cloak of her office flowed gracefully down her back, swaying with each movement of her body, the embroidered Silver Star glistening in the sunlight.

  Kyel fell in behind her, Naia at his side, the uniformed guards of Emmery Palace forming ranks behind their small entourage. Kyel had to rush to keep up with Meiran’s long strides; she hadn’t bothered to wait for an escort. Instead, she set her own course up the white marble steps as dignitaries rushed forward to intercept her.

  “Thank you, Prime Warden, for your swift response to our invitation.” The first breathless minister fell in beside Meiran, matching her stride for stride. He wore an opulent ensemble, sporting a plumed hat and a cape.

  “Of course.” Meiran didn’t favor the man with so much as a glance. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead as she strode swiftly into the depths of the palace, forcing the man to take hurried strides to keep up. “It’s never a problem. Without the support of Emmery’s Crown, our time in exile would be much less comfortable. Queen Romana has been a most generous benefactor.”

  The minister smiled with an accommodating nod. He brought a folded kerchief up to dab at his brow as he continued to keep pace with Meiran’s long strides. “My Lady Queen thanks you for making such haste. Her Majesty is anxious to hear your opinion on a certain, most urgent matter, and is wondering—”

  Meiran cut him off in mid-sentence, snapping, “If your Lady Queen is so anxious for my opinion, then why isn’t she here to greet us personally?” Meiran raised her eyebrows in speculation as she finally turned to regard the man laboring beside her. Kyel allowed himself an amused grin as he watched the interaction. He could hardly imagine anyone more suited for the office of prime warden than Meiran Withersby.

  Blotting at the sheen of perspiration on his brow, the minister looked troubled. “My apologies, Prime Warden, but Queen Romana requests that you convene with her in the Blue Room.”

  “So, I’ve been relegated to the Blue Room, now, have I?” Meiran sounded irritated. Following behind her, Kyel couldn’t get a good look at her face. But he had no trouble imagining the characteristic scowl she must be wearing. “Has Romana become skittish of magefolk agai
n, or is this ‘urgent matter’ really that desperate?”

  The minister led her around a corner and into a long corridor lined with painted wood panels. “I’m afraid I couldn’t begin to speculate, Prime Warden,” he murmured in placating tones.

  Meiran harrumphed. “No, I don’t suppose you’re capable. Ah. Here we are.”

  She drew up before a wide set of double doors as Kyel almost stumbled into her back. He shot a small, knowing grin in Naia’s direction, who returned the expression in kind. They waited, Kyel glancing around as liveried servants threw open the paneled doors, exposing the bright interior of the chamber.

  Meiran swept forward into the room, quickly crossing the patterned rugs. There, in the center of the room, she drew herself up formally and simply waited. Her cloak swung from her thin frame, which was covered by a sumptuous gown of pristine white. Her rich brown hair was gathered behind her head in an elegant twist. Her gaze moved over the interior of the chamber in critical assessment. She drew herself up, shoulders squared and head held regally. Her very presence was suffused with authority.

  “The Prime Warden of Aerysius, Meiran Withersby,” the voice of the minister announced belatedly.

  Kyel’s eyes shot in the direction of the man, catching just a glimpse of him as the doors swung closed, shuddering as they latched. A long, tense silence followed. With a wrench of nausea, Kyel forced himself to look Romana Norengail in the eye.

  Emmery’s queen had matured in the two years since he’d last seen her. Romana was no longer the disarming young girl he’d first met in her solarium. She seemed even more regal now, as though years and experience had somehow consecrated her right to her throne. She wore the Sapphire Crown of Emmery on her head, her shoulders draped in winter ermine. Her lovely face was both patient and serene.

  At her side, seated in a chair not quite as tall or elaborately carved, was Nigel Swain, Romana’s husband. Kyel’s stomach physically squirmed at the sight of the prince consort. Even after all this time, Kyel was still not sure how he felt about the man. Swain had conspired to murder Darien Lauchlin and had manipulated Kyel into helping him. The underhanded way he’d gone about it still galled. Swain was a harsh man, uncompromising in his character. But his loyalty to Romana was flawless.

  Confronted with the presence of the prime warden, both Romana and Swain stood and, taking a step forward in unison, dropped to their knees upon the rugs spread before them on the floor.

  “Arise,” Meiran directed them with a curt wave of her hand. Without any further attempt at ceremony, she seated herself in one of the chairs arranged before them, Kyel taking the seat to her right as Naia claimed the one beside him.

  “Tea?” a butler inquired, indicating a wheeled cart that held an elegant silver service.

  “Yes, that would be lovely.” Meiran’s hands moved to smooth the fabric of her gown.

  The butler thrust an elegant cup and saucer into Kyel’s hands. Yes, he wanted cream. No, he didn’t care for any honey. No wafers, thank you very much. He brought the teacup to his lips, holding the saucer in his left hand as he managed a sip. The tea was fragrant with chamomile and very hot. He lowered the cup back down, resting it against his leg.

  Queen Romana made a majestic but half-hearted attempt at a smile. “Prime Warden, let me first begin by saying—”

  “Please.” Meiran cut her off, lowering her own teacup from her lips. “Let us dispense with formalities. We’re all very tired from the journey. So, just tell me: what has happened?”

  The smile vanished from the lips of Emmery’s queen. Her gaze wandered toward her husband. Kyel studied the two of them, trying to find meaning in the silent conversation that passed between them in the span of a single heartbeat. Turning back to Meiran, Queen Romana said in a troubled voice:

  “A green spire of light has been reported in the skies above Aerysius.”

  Kyel sputtered as he choked on a swallow of tea. Coughing, he leaned forward over his legs and set the cup and saucer down on the floor beside his chair.

  “Has this report been confirmed?” Meiran sat as if frozen, her cup paused halfway to her lips.

  Nigel Swain nodded. His grey-streaked hair swayed forward into his face. “The gateway is very visible, especially at night. It can be seen for miles in all directions.”

  “It’s been only two years,” Naia whispered at Kyel’s side. The despair in her voice was painful to hear. “How could this be happening already? Who could have opened it? Who would have?”

  Meiran cast a withering glance in Naia’s direction. She took a deep breath, appearing to be collecting herself, then uttered with a scowl, “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. No matter how it was accomplished, we now must deal with the consequences.”

  Kyel squirmed in his chair, his thoughts pulled in a hundred separate directions at once. He found himself transported back in time, back to a dark room in a damp cavern in the heart of an ancient mountain. Where a granite well encircled with glowing, sinister markings awaited him. It had been his job to seal those runes, to burn them clean of the blood that fed them life.

  Apparently, his work had been undone.

  “Have there been…other types of reports?” he said to no one in particular.

  Queen Romana answered his question. “Not yet. But we must assume that the Eight walk the earth again. We need to consider the possibility that war might soon be upon us.”

  “They are no longer Eight,” Naia corrected her. “Darien destroyed Arden Hannah. Their number has been reduced to seven.”

  The prime warden shrugged dismissively. “One less darkmage won’t make a bit of difference. There’s only three of us, each fettered by the Oath of Harmony. Kyel is the closest thing we have to a Sentinel.”

  Swain leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Which order did Naia take?”

  Meiran responded, “I’ve been training Naia as a Querer.”

  Swain leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “So. We’ve got one half-trained Sentinel and one half-trained Querer. And a prime warden we can’t risk letting anywhere near a field of battle. Those are our assets. Against seven Unbound demons. Including Byron Connel, one of the greatest military minds the world has ever known.”

  Naia’s gaze lifted to confront him. In a voice thick with the lilt of Chamsbrey, she asked Swain, “Perhaps now you can appreciate Darien’s quandary?” The resentment in her tone was scathing.

  Nigel Swain shook his head. “No. I don’t. Because here we are again two years later, in the same situation as before. All Darien did was buy us time. Nothing more.”

  Naia glared at him, her lips compressed with bitterness. “No,” she growled in a voice low and defiant. “Darien’s sacrifice was not in vain. I will not believe that. I cannot believe that.”

  Swain leaned forward, capturing her eyes with a cold, unfeeling stare. “It doesn’t matter what you believe; the portal’s open again. They’ll be coming. And this time, Darien’s not here to save or damn us.”

  Kyel found himself gazing down absently at the chain on his right wrist, rotating his arm so that the markings shimmered in the light. “We must reseal the Well of Tears,” he said. “That will cut them off from their source of power.” He didn’t dare voice his next thought: that one of their own number would have to volunteer to be the next sacrifice demanded by the gateway. It had to be a Grand Master. Naia was only third tier; she ranked too low to be an option. That left only Meiran and himself.

  Meiran was fingering the necklace she always wore around her neck. It was a habit she had, something she tended to do whenever something troubled her. The necklace had a silver pendant that looked to be made of one sinuous, intertwined strand that wove around about itself without beginning or end. The symbol was called an eternity knot. Darien had given her that necklace the day he’d left Aerysius for Greystone Keep. The same day Meiran had presented him with the sword he could never bring himself to part with.

  “No,” Meiran sighed at last, still finger
ing the fragile pendant on its chain. “They’ll be expecting us to move against the Well. This time, they’ll be guarding it much more carefully. The Well of Tears will have to remain open, at least for now.”

  Romana leaned forward, her hands squeezing the arms of her chair. “What, then?”

  Meiran dropped her hand, looking up into the face of Emmery’s queen. “I’ve spent the past two years rallying the southern kingdoms in support of our cause. It’s time for those monarchies to do more than just offer lip service. On the morrow, I will pronounce a formal declaration of war. Let’s see how many battalions the South will be willing to muster.”

  Looking at Swain, she asked, “What’s the status of Greystone Keep and Ironguard Pass?”

  Nigel Swain shrugged. “Fortifications are well underway, though neither keep is combat-ready.”

  Kyel frowned. “Has Force Commander Craig been notified of this?”

  “I sent a bird to him before I sent for you.”

  A liveried servant entered the room, swiftly circling the small ring of chairs and leaning over to whisper in Swain’s ear. The man’s voice was much too low for Kyel to hear. But he could see Swain’s reaction. The prince’s eyes widened reflexively, his body stiffening in his chair.

  “Wait here,” he growled as he rose to his feet. He crossed the room in three cat-like strides and was already out the door before Kyel could wonder what had happened. He kept his gaze focused on the doorway, frowning after the man.

  Naia was still talking, going on as though she hadn’t noticed Swain’s abrupt disappearance. “We should talk about making use of the temples. I could travel to the Valley of the Gods and speak with my father. It’s not far.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Meiran muttered, looking at the doorway rather than at Naia. “Do me a favor and bring it up again later.”

  A loud noise echoed from outside. The sound of many running footsteps rang clearly from the hallway. Kyel started, surging to his feet just as a cluster of blue-cloaked guardsmen spilled into the room, sweeping forward around the chairs to converge on their queen.